


Twelfth Night, 1952

by Phoenixflames12



Series: Outlander WW2 AU: Next Generation Oneshots [4]
Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 22:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16416848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: January, 1952Bran died in his sleep on Twelfth Night





	Twelfth Night, 1952

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small moment from the yet unplanned, unnamed sequel to my main WW2 AU story, 'Vergangenheit' that popped into my head and absolutely refused to go away until it was written.

Bran had died in his sleep on Twelfth Night.

 

It had been a quiet, painless death that Jamie had discovered that morning.

 

The large, long legs that were forever moving had stiffened into eternal stillness, the ghost of his usual booming bark of welcome echoing eerily through the silent kitchen.

 

 _William had been there_ , _still in his pyjamas, kneeling beside the old dog’s basket which they had moved into the kitchen during the cold, dark days of that last winter, one hand clutching deep in the brindled fur of Bran’s neck. Red rimmed eyes had glowed out of a pale, exhausted face, making the lad look far younger than fifteen._

_Wordlessly, he had drawn his son to him, feeling the bony weight of William’s shoulder blades heave under his touch; heavy, unspoken sobs lost in the fabric of his shirt._

_‘It’s all right, mo bhalaiach,’ he’d murmured softly, hardly knowing what he was saying. ‘It’s all right.’_

_And William had choked back a hiccough; a small, broken smile that did not meet his eyes cracking at the corners of his lips._

_‘Is it, Da? Truly?’_

Now, at the end of the day that has felt like it has lasted a week, he sits at the kitchen table feeling the ghosts of Bran’s presence come rushing back.

 

The rough, warm weight of his head thrust under his palm, the wiry bite of brindled fur under his fingers, the large, yellow eyes holding a wolfish gleam at their core holding his own with a somehow human understanding.

 

_Watching Faith and Brianna as bairns haul themselves up onto their feet using the dog as a support, his eyes soft with patience as chubby fingers dug deep into his fur as they wobbled on unsteady feet, faces screwed up in concentration as they tottered the few steps into his or Claire’s waiting arms._

_And then, later, much later, when the clouds of war were billowing out over the horizon, he had watched the dog pad over to the beechwood cradle which held their latest miracle, their longed-for son; his dark, wet nose sniffing expectantly at the small, red bundle of new life that lay there before giving the bairn a rough tounged lick across his cheek._

Evening shadows play against the kitchen windows, the rustle of wisteria leaves brushing against the glass, the shadows of moments that are now mere memories rising up to meet him.

 

_Bran as a pup being thrust without ceremony into his hands after a particularly fruitful raid on the pheasants by an irate Jock Kirby, his jaws dripping scarlet and rimmed with a moustache of tawny feathers._

_The long, loping walks that he had taken the dog on up to Sgaoileadh Ridge, his gun slung across his back, cartridge bag banging against his leg, the dog bounding on ahead through the crisp carpet of tussock grass, bracken and heather._

_A moment of perfect stillness, the air crisp and cool in a slate coloured sky and then a triumphant, joyful bark from the dog as a red grouse was flushed from its’ cover in a shower of russet and roan plumage._

 

A whisky dram glitters in a cut glass on the table beside him, but he does not drink.

 

Does not hear the creak of the door opening, or the warm weight of Claire’s hands cupping his shoulders; her long, calloused fingers plunging deep into the knots of his shoulder blades.

 

Her breath is tinted with mint and sleep, the swallow against the back of his neck an audible attempt at control.

 

‘Jamie.’

 

Her voice is a murmur, her free hand reaching down to entwine with his own.

 

The joined callouses of their skin mingle with the lingering ghosts of Bran’s musk that still lie there after Jamie had carried the large, limp body of the dog outside to dig the grave.

 

‘How’s William?’

 

The words feel cracked against his tongue, his voice not sounding his own.

 

The whisky coloured eyes that glow out of a pale face that is etched with exhaustion darken momentarily at the mention of their son, her crown of curls tumbling in a chaotic cloud about her face.

 

‘He’s asleep, poor lad. He exhausted himself today.’

 

And without warning, he remembers their son’s tall, steady form standing silently beside the freshly dug earth of the dog’s grave, the bare branches of the beech and sycamore trees that fringe the orchard boundary whispering more than William’s white face and red rimmed eyes ever could.

 

A sigh is pulled from her then and he nods, feeling the catch in his throat that has been threatening to choke him ever since he saw the hunched shadow of his son kneeling by Bran’s prone form that morning.

 

‘Aye, _mo ghraidh.’_

 

Slowly, he turns away from the empty expanse of the kitchen table, reaching out to clasp her hands in his.

 

She gives them to him gently, her eyes soft and troubled as he slowly brushes his lips against her knuckles.

 

Outside the kitchen window, a faint whisper of farewell can be heard, falling to earth like the first, hesitant drops of a winter rain shower.

 

‘ _Beannachd leat, mo chu.’_

 

_Beannachd leat._

 

* * *

  

**_Fin_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
> 
> Much love and enjoy x


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